


we could end up making love (instead of misery)

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Drabble Collection, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Jealousy, Kidnapping, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 06:16:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6412339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of smutty drabble responses (because hey, everyone else was doing it) for a variety of Jemma-pairings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the world is in chaos (Jemma/Hive)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous said: "Category 2.4 [end of the world/the world is in chaos sex] Jemma and Hive"

Jemma’s never been one for spending much time in front of a television—her parents, concerned she was studying too much, used to take her books away and make her watch for at least an hour a day, and it rather soured her against it—but here, she has little choice. After the third time she used one of the books as a weapon, all of them were cleared away, and her prison offers few other distractions.

The third screen from the left on the top row is always tuned to a news channel, which is both helpful, because it gives her at least some information on what’s happening in the world outside, and extremely disheartening, because what’s happening outside is nothing good. She tries to focus on the various documentaries instead, but her sense of duty as a SHIELD agent—her duty to stay informed, to look for opportunities to act and protect—always draws her eyes back to the news.

Today, she doesn’t even _try_ to look away.

The Avengers are brawling in the middle of a New York City street. Well, a _former_ New York City street, she should say; after twenty minutes, there’s really not much left of it. The devastation is remarkable and discouraging in more than one way; if she were a more fanciful person, she might imagine she can actually _feel_ the faith draining out of the population at large.

If the Avengers, their _heroes_ , are falling apart, what hope is there for the rest of them?

“Humans,” her only company—her captor—tuts. “What did I tell you? They learn nothing from their own history.”

Hive is lounging behind her on the bed, his feet resting against her thigh. Experience has taught her that trying to shift away from the simple contact will only see _more_ forced upon her—most likely she’d be dragged into his arms—and so she allows it.

(She deliberately doesn’t think about the fact it’s becoming easier and easier to accept, as the days pass.)

But he enjoys her attitude, so she doesn’t bother to hold her tongue. “Aren’t you in the middle of attempting the same thing that saw you exiled from this entire _planet_?”

Without taking her eyes off the screen, she knows he’s smiling at her. She can always tell. His smiles are more than simple expressions; there’s a physical sensation that accompanies them, a warmth that settles between her shoulders.

She’s become acutely familiar with it. He smiles at her often.

“I am,” he confirms without a trace of shame. “But this time, it’s going to work.”

She’d like to contest that, but unfortunately, she has the horrible feeling that he’s right. With the Avengers so fractured…

They might reunite to stand against him once he finally makes an obvious enough move, but it seems unlikely. After all, she knows the story behind the attack on the helicarrier and the subsequent Battle of New York; a common enemy in Loki wasn’t enough to get them to cooperate _then_. It took Coulson’s death to unite them—and that was when it was only conflicting personalities, not genuine animosity, separating them. This time, she imagines it will take one of their own deaths to motivate the rest…and she fears that by that point, it will be too late.

And speaking of Coulson…

“Your Coulson’s attempt to reconcile them seems to have failed,” Hive says, following (likely literally) the line of her thoughts.

“There was never much hope,” she admits, drawing up one leg—the one his feet aren’t pressing into—in order to hug her knee to her chest. “Any friendship and trust he previously had with the Avengers will have inevitably been tainted by the fact that it took him four years to tell them he was alive. I doubt he has any sway over them at all.”

In fact, she’s sure he doesn’t. It was weeks ago that he was planning to go speak to the Avengers; if he had any influence, he would have used it by now.

He hums an acknowledgement of her reasoning, clearly pleased by her candor, and for a while they watch the fight in silence.

Then a stray—or perhaps even deliberate; who can say?—bolt of power from Scarlet Witch takes out the news helicopter, and the feed goes black. It’s replaced a moment later by the worried newscasters in the studio, and she turns away from them, uninterested.

The documentaries on the other screen, however, are all horribly depressing, because Hive is unabashedly fascinated by Earth’s worst moments, from crimes against humanity to natural disasters.

Jemma is _tired_ of being depressed.

The bed shifts beneath her, and then strong arms are closing around her waist and a warm chest pressing against her back.

“Let me distract you, then,” Hive murmurs, lips brushing the curve of her ear, and—she should shove him away.

She doesn’t.

She promised herself that last time would _be_ the last, but the world is falling apart, and there’s nothing she can do to stop it. She has no way to get back to her team—what’s left of it, anyway—and even if she could…what good would it do?

As she twists in his embrace to kiss him, she comforts herself with the thought that by remaining with Hive—by becoming intimate with him, letting their relationship progress as he wishes—she will retain some influence over _him_ , influence she can use to lessen the severity of his plans. Permitting him to strip her, to press her into the mattress, to slide his fingers inside of her while he bites at her breasts…all of it gives her the chance to save lives later.

(She knows it’s nothing but a pretty lie—and so does he, by the way his smile curves against her skin—but it comforts her nonetheless.)

He’s learned her body well in the weeks she’s been here (and that’s all she allows herself to attribute it to: experience, not the memories she refuses to remember that he holds), and it’s not long at all before she feels her orgasm building as he curls his fingers and rubs at her clit just so.

Then, she feels the cold weight of his power in her mind, and she sees stars as he—

She has no idea what he does. Fiddles with her nervous system, alters her perception, whatever. She cares only about the end result, which is that she feels _everything_ a hundredfold: the soft sheets at her back, his solid warmth above her, the calluses on his fingers as they shift inside of her…

She comes hard, and it doesn’t stop. It drags on and on, so long it almost hurts—it _does_ hurt, but the pain isn’t enough to outweigh the pleasure, not at all. She writhes beneath him, arching into his touch, desperate, _begging_ for more—

And then, with one last burst of pleasure that whites out her vision, it’s over.

It takes her a while to come back to herself. When she does, she finds she’s panting for breath. Hive is beside her, resting his weight on one elbow as his other hand strokes her sweat-dampened hair away from her face. Her whole body throbs in time with her—no, his—heartbeat.

She feels…amazing.

“There,” Hive says, pleased, as he settles over her again. “Isn’t that better?”

Before she can catch her breath to answer him, he’s thrusting into her, and she sobs as pleasure wells right back up inside of her. It drags her under until all she can do is take what he gives her and, when she finds the voice for it, beg for more.


	2. a public place (Jemma/Grant)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: "‘we’re in a public place and i just spent the last half hour making you ridiculously aroused’ sex for Grant/Jemma please!"
> 
> This is a fairly loose interpretation of that prompt, but...whatever.

Half an hour is just about Grant’s limit.

This is stupid in more ways than one. _John_ is on the Bus, along with a handful of other Level Eights, any one of whom would be delighted to slam Coulson’s team with a violation of the frat regs that hardly ever get enforced—and getting caught by one of the team, even if it wouldn’t end in disciplinary action, would hardly be better.

But Jemma’s been flirting with Trip, smiling at him and laughing at his jokes and letting him watch her with those goddamn infatuated puppy eyes, for thirty minutes, and Grant just can’t let that slide.

So, two minutes before the alarm on her watch will go off to remind her about the test she’s not supposed to be running on Skye’s blood, he excuses himself from his conversation with John and Blake and heads downstairs.

She’s keeping all those illicit vials of blood—collected against Coulson’s express orders, because Jemma can be surprisingly rebellious when the mood strikes her—in storage pod 3, which has refrigerated drawers. He leans back against them and settles in to wait.

It’s not a very long one; he barely has time to start imagining just how much more blatant her flirting might get without his presence to discourage her before she’s slipping into the pod—only to immediately startle back.

“Ward!” she exclaims, hand over her heart. “What on earth are you—?”

The rest of her question gets lost when he turns her and pins her against the wall a little more roughly than he really means to. It’s not enough to knock the breath out of her, not quite, but it does shock her into silence. Her eyes go wide.

“You and Trip seem to be getting along well,” he says pleasantly.

A guilty look flits over her face, and the confirmation—not that he needed it—pisses him off that much more. She opens her mouth (to explain or defend herself or, hell, maybe even protest his manhandling), but he doesn’t give her a chance to say anything before he kisses her.

It’s more forceful—more demanding—than he’s ever allowed himself to be with her (and he’s let himself be pretty forceful), but if she minds, she doesn’t give any sign of it. She just makes a happy little sound and wraps her arms around his neck to pull herself up, easing the angle.

It’s not enough, though. Not when he’s gonna have to spend the next god knows how long standing back and pretending not to be bothered by Trip making eyes at her.

And her making eyes _back_.

She obviously needs a little reminder about just who she belongs to. They don’t have time for real sex—there’s no telling how long they have before someone comes looking for one or both of them—but he knows her body well enough that he can get her off _very_ fast when he wants to. A quick orgasm will get her focus back on him where it belongs, and once this mission is over, she can make it up to him.

So, once he’s done kissing her breathless, he unbuttons her jeans and slips a hand past them and into her panties to—

His thoughts screech to a halt. She’s already wet.

Fury falls over him like a physical weight.

“Ward—”

“Is this for Trip?” he asks, not even trying to hide his anger. He probably should—he’s got a cover to keep and all that—but he can’t quite think past how easily his fingers slide over her— _into_ her. It takes more than one kiss to get her this wet.

She came down here like this.

Her hips buck at the curl of his fingers, and he sees red, because she’s obviously already close to the edge. That she’s this turned on from a single _conversation_ with Trip…

Grant’s gonna kill him. He’s gonna cut that fucking smile right off his face.

But first, he needs to deal with Jemma.

“That’s what gets you going?” he demands, and she whimpers as he twists his fingers just the way she likes. Because he _knows_ the way she likes it, because it’s _him_ she’s been fucking since October, not Antoine fucking Triplett. “You like him panting after you like that? Maybe you’d prefer to have _him_ down here with—”

“No, no,” Jemma gasps, leaning into him. He pushes her back against the wall with his other hand and then, for good measure, uses it to catch first one wrist, then the other. She whines as he pins them both above her head. “It’s—”

“It’s _what_?” he asks, and stills his hand. She’s nearly there, he can feel it in the way she’s clenching around his fingers, but he’s not inclined to let her come just yet. Actually, he’s torn between making her beg for it and just flat out refusing to let it happen at all.

That should probably worry him. Not getting possessive over a fuck buddy—after spending his whole life having to fight to keep what he wants, he’s a possessive kind of guy, even when it comes to casual relationships, so it’s not a surprise that he’s angry. _This_ angry, though? The same kind of burning, blinding rage he got from touching the berserker staff?

It’s more than he would’ve expected to feel. It’s more than he _should_ feel.

But he’s a little too busy watching Jemma fight for coherence to care about _should_ s right now.

She’s squirming, desperate for friction—for the last little push that’ll send her over—and him refusing to give it to her only makes her need it that much more. She likes this, likes that he’s stronger than her (but she’s tiny; fucking _Trip_ would be stronger than her, too) and that he can hold her down when he wants to.

And right now, he definitely wants to. They’ve already been here too long, but he’s not giving her this until she earns it—if he ever gives it to her at all. It’d serve her right to be left hanging—let her go find Trip and see if _he_ can do this as well as Grant can, if he can figure out how to be mean to her in exactly the right way.

Except just the thought of Trip touching her like this, _seeing_ her like this, freezes his fury into something colder—something a lot more dangerous. He’s so distracted by it that he almost misses the way Jemma tries kneading herself against his hand.

When he pulls back to prevent it, she slams her head back against the wall.

“It’s for _you_ ,” she finally manages, and he scoffs.

“ _This_ ,” he says, flicking his thumb briefly over her clit and not even smiling when she sobs in frustration, “is not from one kiss.”

“No, it’s—” She whines. “You were jealous.”

He scowls. “Yeah, and for good reason.”

“No, it was—ah!” She jolts as he pointedly twists his fingers in response to her denial. She’s very, very close; this is usually the point where he’d stop teasing and let her get on with it, but right now, he’s really not inclined to.  “I meant—I could tell you were getting jealous, and I liked it.” She drags in a gasping breath. “I liked you watching me like that.”

He stares down at her for a long minute, taking her in. Her flushed skin, her wide eyes, the complete lack of guilt or embarrassment…

She’s telling the truth.

Well, then. That _definitely_ deserves an orgasm.

He curls his fingers and grinds the heel of his hand against her clit and tightens his grip on her wrists _just_ enough to hurt, and she cries out as she comes. He works her through it, drawing it out as long as he can even while his mind is going in circles.

Him getting jealous over her is one thing. He’s the jealous type, it’s to be expected. But being jealous enough that she can _tell_? That’s not good. It’s not good at all. And neither is _this_ , how pleased he is that she liked his jealousy.

She gives that little gasping whine that means it’s too much, and he leaves off, pulling his hand out of her jeans and wiping it on his own. (No risk there; he’s gonna have to change before the mission anyway.)

There’s a reason no one on the team knows that they’ve been fucking for months. It’s a threat to his cover— _she’s_ a threat to his cover, and an even bigger one than he thought, if she can read him so easily.

He should end this. Right here, right now.

…Except.

“So,” he muses, and her eyes open at his tone, “you were messing with me? Having fun winding me up in front of our whole team— _and_ my SO?”

“And if I say I was?” she asks, doing a pretty decent job at a coy tone for someone who hasn’t caught her breath yet.

His cover wouldn’t do this. Hell, his cover wouldn’t have done _any_ of this. His cover would’ve been _hurt_ , not angry, about her flirting with some other guy. His cover has to check every time they fuck whether she still wants it rough, whether he’s pushing her too far.

If he’s not gonna end this, he should at least apologize for what just happened. He should walk it back, make some excuses for his behavior, and then leave.

But imagining her feeling his eyes on her, getting turned on by his jealousy even while she was smiling and laughing at Trip… His jeans were already painfully tight from having her gasping and squirming on his fingers, and at this, they’re downright unbearable.

He’s already crossed the line. What’s the harm in taking it a little further?

“Are you sorry?” he asks lowly.

Jemma smiles. “Not even a little.” She tugs against the grip he’s still got on her wrists, smile widening when he doesn’t loosen it at all. “What are you going to do about it?”


End file.
